Chapter Four
A voice—human, thank God—says, “Freeze!” and I say, “Shut the damn light off, now.”
The light remains on, but at least it’s lowered. I blink hard a few times and Thor growls, and I say, “Easy, boy, easy.”
The voice comes from the rear of the bed and breakfast, and then the light moves, as a young man comes into view. It’s one of the kitchen staff we saw earlier, and he says, “Sorry about that. We keep a tight perimeter around here, for thieves or Coasties.” He has a Remington pump-action 12-gauge shotgun on a sling over his shoulder.
My arm is around Serena’s slim waist. “That’s all right,” I say. “Understandable.”
He says, “No offense, but it’s pretty late now, at least for us. You should probably head back in.”
“No offense taken,” I say, and Serena nudges me with her hip, says with a lowered voice, “Speak for yourself, soldier boy,” and we follow the kitchen guy back into the building.
* * *
My room is toasty warm and I get things ready for bed. My M-4 and M-10 are unstrapped and put up against the wall, and I check my 9 mm Beretta and put it on the nightstand. Thor watches me with interest as I get my gear together, and I’m thinking of what this fine place might make for breakfast. I’m already hungry thinking about it.
I wash up and brush my teeth, and I’m tempted to take another hot bath—never waste an opportunity to eat or wash up, one of the many lessons I learned in Basic when I was twelve—but that bed looks damn inviting. There are two lights burning in my room, both gas lanterns, and I shut them off and see there’s a big lump in my bed.
“Thor,” I say. “Really?”
He doesn’t answer, of course, but he graciously moves to the side and gives me room. The sheets are crisp and clean and smell of soap. Once upon a time nearly everyone here in this country slept on similar sheets and didn’t worry about dinner, or breakfast.
Yeah, once upon a time.
I stretch out, rest my head against my hands, and stare up at the ceiling, thinking of how in hell I had ended up here, in upstate New York, lots of miles away from my home station of Fort St. Paul. It had all started with a simple courier job, escorting a representative of the governor to Albany, along with Serena and her younger brother. Yeah, simple, no such thing as a simple order. I had gotten them to Albany—after an apparent Creeper ambush that destroyed our train and killed the governor’s man—only to learn later that getting Buddy to Albany had been my real mission. Quiet Buddy, who had once worked in the Observation Corps, tracking the Creepers’ killer stealth satellites via telescopes, binoculars, and eyeballs, and who also had a talent for memorizing and learning the Creeper language.
Quiet Buddy, who had convinced the Creepers back there to open their Dome and to surrender, and to end this damn war.
Quiet, dangerous Buddy.
I can’t get comfortable and I don’t feel sleepy, so I switch on the AM radio and find two stations: Armed Forces Radio and Voice of America. The VOA station’s playing old rock music from the 1980s, and the other station is doing a news program. Both stations fade in and out as their signals bounce from one transmitter to another, to avoid being targeted by a Creeper satellite. Every now and then a civilian station comes back on air, and it usually lasts a week or two before getting smeared.
I skip the news station for now and work through the tuning knob, hearing crackles and bursts of static. Sometimes if there’s a skip or something going on with the ionosphere, you can hear broadcasts from overseas. I’ve picked up stations from someplace in Eastern Europe more than once, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. One time I heard a show in Japanese that went on for a while, the male broadcaster almost shouting in a way that sounded damn spooky.
For me the best ones are from the BBC, with news about battles along the English Channel and the Highlands of Scotland.
But no skips tonight. Just noise.
I turn the station back to Armed Forces Radio, and it must be the top of the hour, for they’re broadcasting a round-up of the latest news from the United States and from bits of the world that can still be reached. The lead story, of course, is the recent attack on the capitol by the Creepers, and the escape of the President, most of Congress and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Most military units in Vermont and New York are responding to the area for R&R—back in the day, known as rest and recreation, but nowadays known as relief and recovery.
Then some more headlines, about relief convoys trucking into Denver after its years-long siege had been lifted, optimistic reports about wheat output coming from Kansas, Montana and the two Dakotas, and increased oil production in Texas and Louisiana. From around the world, rumors of a Creeper offensive nearing Beijing, reports of Argentina increasing its beef exports, and the latest on the medical condition of the young King of Great Britain, wounded a couple of weeks ago while leading troops against a Creeper offensive line south of Manchester.
More news drones on and I finally switch off the radio, settle in. Thor moves and lets loose a heavy sigh, like he’s finally happy that I’ve turned off the other voices out there in the ether, yapping and talking and keeping him awake. I roll over, pull up the blankets, and something is bothering me, something is nibbling at the back of my mind, and I finally realize it.
Not once during the news hour that I had been listening to, not once was there any mention of the Creeper and Dome surrender, something that should have been at least story number two.
I move the pillow around. Then again, what the hell do I know?
Like I keep on insisting to Serena, I’m just a soldier.
* * *
My morning starts with a thumping at the door. I roll out, toss on a pair of BDU pants, and in bare feet go to the door, pistol in hand. Hell of a breakfast service this place had planned.
I open the door and surprise of all surprises, Sergeant Bronson is standing there, in full battle rattle, Colt M-10 hanging off his shoulder, helmet on, gear hanging from his harness, muddy boots on the nice rug outside of my door, stairway behind him.
“Morning, Sunshine,” he says. “Time to roll.”
“Sorry?”
He looks at the pistol in my hand. “What, you expecting a baby Creeper to come up those stairs and piss on your bare feet? Saddle up. We’re moving out.”
“What the hell do you mean, moving out?”
His face creases into a knowing smile. “Get the hell dressed, grab your gear, and get the hell out. Captain Wallace is waiting on your skinny ass, and you never want to keep the Captain waiting. Move, Knox, move.”
Bronson turns around, clomps his way down the stairs, and I whisper a few obscenities and go back in to do as I’m told.
* * *
A few minutes later I’m out in the cold morning air, and there’s an old 6x6 truck at ease, belching smoke and steam, the command Humvee, and one of the Stryker vehicles I had seen yesterday, its two flags hanging limply from the rear staffs, the American one and the Scottish one. Captain Wallace is talking to my dad, looking down at a topo map spread out on the hood of the Humvee. I come down off the porch, yawning, with Thor by my side.
Dad spots me and says, “Morning, sport.”
“Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
Captain Wallace says, “What’s up is that we need to get you moving.”
I’m not so tired anymore. “I’m sorry…ma’am. It was my understanding from Mr. Cranston yesterday that I was going to be sent home, back to Concord.”
“Really?” Captain Wallace asks. “Well, it’s a new day, and a new reality. You and the colonel are accompanying me up the road to Amsterdam. There’s a Creeper Dome waiting for us.”
“Dad?”
He says, “Cranston and his folks, they debriefed Buddy, and they’ve recorded his messages. We have a PsyOps Humvee attached to Captain Wallace’s unit. We’re going there to broadcast the message, get those Creepers to surrender. When it works, that same message is going to be duplicated and sent throughout the Army. That’s what we’re doing.”
“Buddy and Serena,” I say, looking to Drake House. “Where are they?”
“They and their father are with Cranston and General Scopes, going for additional meetings and briefings.”
“They’re already gone?”
“Yes, Randy.”
I look back again at the quiet building. Not even a chance to say goodbye, not even a chance to see how she was doing, no chances at all.
“Dad, it isn’t fair,” I say, knowing my voice sounds weak and pathetic.
Captain Wallace seems amused by our little spat. I say, “It’s been a long time since we were both back in Concord. We should go back.”
“Things change.”
“Dad, you know it isn’t fair!”
My dad’s eyes tighten and he picks up a new helmet, used to keep one edge of the map stretched out, puts it on his head. “Sergeant,” he says, voice cold. “You and I have been officially detached to Captain Wallace’s company. You have your orders.”
I take a breath and since his head’s covered, I salute him.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and I turn and head to the vehicles, their engines grumbling.